Living Rock in Dying Hands

It was almost done. Although ‘almost’ could mean a lot. A year, ten, twenty – they could all be near the end. But it was certainly a long way from the start now. A long way from those initial taps of the hammer and the first few chips of stone that had showered his face and cut at his hands.

The sheer wall of rock was no longer a thing of nature. He’d truly claimed it as his own. A creation which moulded the rock into his form, stealing it from the indifferent truth of time and tides. Though what it was beyond that act of theft he had long since lost sight of. In the last few strokes he could, with a squint, still see intent. A glimpse of himself engraved with pain staking effort huddled about his still labouring hands. But the rest simply was. Formed by his efforts no doubt. But looming above him was something no less indifferent than what he’d found that first day when nature had dwarfed him. Absolute and daunting.

Nearly finished though. Nearly in reaching distance of the clarity of completion.